The Perfect Crime
by our dancing days
Summary: /it would be the perfect crime... if i stole your heart, and you stole mine./ Harry Potter, Charlie Weasley, and everybody in between. Drabble collection.
1. Cracks

**Title: **Cracks

**Characters: **Harry Potter and Bill Weasley.

**Prompt: **#1 - Please.

**Notes: **This is going to be a little (humongous) collection of 1000-words-or-less drabbles for the challenge on HPFC - _Slash/Femmeslash Boot Camp. _It's basically Harry. And everyone. (Within semi-reason). There will be 25 half fluff, half angst chapters... and I sincerely hope you enjoy this first snippet! Thank you!

* * *

You think you're broken. You're not.

He has Fleur - pretty, empty Fleur who sings like an angel without her wings - and you have Ginny - lovely, broken Ginny who never pretended to be anything else - but you have each other, and maybe that's worth more.

After all, Ginny can't comfort you, and Fleur doesn't understand scars. There are cracks in both of your hearts.

You say, _"Please." _He holds your hand and doesn't ask what you want; he can't guess either, but he doesn't need to. Anything you want is irrelevant, now. He gives you want you need.

You all lost someone in that war, and you're not the only two who gained someone, but you're the only ones that don't respect the balance.

You are the only ones who don't believe it's a _fair trade._

Sometimes, when the moon is full, he leaves Fleur, and comes to you. You both sit on the couch with his head in your lap, and you don't speak. You don't question... _this, _whatever _this _is. You patch up the cracks and kiss them better. You don't think of Molly's wrath or Arthur's disappointment, his brothers' shock, or even Fleur's tears and Ginny's silence.

You think of green eyes and red ponytails, and you fall into place.

"Please."

You honestly thought of not telling them; of hiding under stars and balconies, wearing masks and playing harlequin just to appease the rest of them. You thought of ignoring the cracks in your armour.

You decide against it, because this is the only selfish thing you've done in your life, and you want to do it properly.

"Please."

It's almost strange; Molly sits and stares at you both, hand in hand, and then looks up at the family clock. She looks disappointed when Bill's hand points to _lost. _

Arthur shouts and screams and throws a vase at the door behind you. His freckles stand out and he shakes as he asks you _why _and _how _and _why _and _when _and _why you insolent children why would you do this to Fleur Ginny Molly me _us?

You don't - can't - answer him.

Ron just looks sad.

Charlie couldn't make it because he knew what was coming and George doesn't look surprised. Percy pushes his glasses up his nose and shakes his head. _They knew. _

"_Please." _

Ginny is begging you now, tugging at your sleeve, wondering where she went wrong. She asks what she could've done better; she asks what she could have done _right._

You say, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Because if you had wanted her to be smarter, you would've listened to Percy. If you wanted her to be prettier, you would've followed Charlie to Romania. If you wanted her to be funnier, you would've moved in with George. If you wanted her to _understand you, _you would've chosen Ron.

If you wanted to hate yourself, you would've thought to fall in love with Fred.

But it isn't that Bill is _more _than Ginny, or any better.

He's just... Bill.

Ginny starts to cry. Fleur stays silent.

And Bill looks round at all of them, and his grip tightens on your hand. He blinks softly, and Molly looks away from the clock, Arthur sinks low in his seat, George straightens in his and Ron doesn't say anything at all.

Fleur rubs circles on Ginny's back and refuses to look at any of them.

"_Please." _The noise is seemingly ripped from Bills' throat - raw and pleading. You shrink where you stand, half hidden behind the man you have come to love.

None of you know what he's asking for. Silence, maybe, but he already has that. Acceptance, possibly. Love, most of all. Molly stands shakily, and walks over to you. She dabs her eyes with the apron, then looks the two of you in the eyes.

She leans forward and kisses your cheek. She takes off your glasses and dries the tears you didn't know were there. She grabs your hand. With her other, she holds Bill.

"Thank you," she whispers, and you don't know which one of you she is talking to. "_Thank you." _

Your thumb rubs the spot on Bill's fourth finger that you know for a fact is lighter than it should be. He kisses you on the forehead, over a particular scar that has faded now, that has been patched up and forgotten. You feel better for it; Bill has chosen you. Molly accepts that. The others will, in time. Your cracks are healing.

There is nothing more to ask for, now.

You are complete.


	2. Puppeteer

**Title: **Puppeteer

**Characters: **Harry Potter and Barty Crouch Jr.

**Prompt: **#39 - Child.

**Notes: **This was written for the amazing_ Exceeds Expectations, _who requested this pairing! I **think **I prefer Barric Jr. (Cedric/Barty Crouch Jr.) more, but I still fell in love with this. Completely. It's in a different style to the previous chapter, obviously, and it's darker and a definite AU, but I hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

Come now, child.

Head up.

What are you going to _do, _child? Are you going to weep? Are you going to scream? Are you going to give up, accept defeat, and hand the world their undeserving victory?

Didn't think so.

After all, _dear, _you are nothing but a puppet - controlled on the strings that will hang you, in time, twist and curl around your neck and leave you swinging. They will choke you, little boy, and you will welcome it. Do you know why?

Because you are broken, child.

Oh, look at that! I said those three unforgivable words, darling. _YOU ARE BROKEN. _They are engraved onto your soul and sewn into your heart and tattooed across your skin, because that's who you _are, _boy. Not Harry, which is just a petty little name your cold, dead parents gave you. You are _broken._

What are you going to do now, sweetheart? Are you going to revolt?

No.

Because though you are broken, you are cursed to try and heal. You will try any medicine to cure you, any painkiller to relieve you, any person to distract you.

And _he -_

Oh, Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry, isn't he marvelous? Isn't he a work of art, all wooden smiles and dead eyes? He is Pinocchio, and he doesn't want to be a real boy, child, because real boys get _broken._

Did you think you were different? Did you think you were his one toy that could come alive?

No, child. You're smarter than that.

Maybe he loves you, dear, but it is fleeting, like a child's passing favourite toy. Maybe he cares for you, but you will be thrown aside for bigger destinies, more powerful men -

He'll chuck you away and replace you with a new toy, because what use is a puppet who can't use his strings?

Baby, why do you think he seduced you? It can't be because of that scar, or those eyes, or even that _title, _stamped across your forehead in bright red paint. _Condemned _is written across your heart in big, bold letters; taped across it. _Do not enter._

Come now, dear. Don't be _obvious._

He chose you because you fight back! You're young and you're broken, and that's a rarer combination than you think. You're special and daunting and forbidden, because you're _you, _child - you are little broken Harry who wants to snap his strings rather than dance for them.

You're a challenge.

And he so _loves_ challenges.

After all, dear, he showed you his true face and you could have cut him off right there - you could have reported him and killed him, sent him back to that hell they lovingly call _Azkaban; _wrapped him up in a big bow and sent him to the Ministry.

But you didn't. You still don't know why; maybe you like challenges too.

And - and here's the twist, child - and he _played _you. He made you dance and think your limbs were moving of your own accord. You thought of him as _Pinocchio _but he was really the puppeteer.

He painted a smile on your face and made you pretend it was _emotion. _He coloured your eyes green and gave them life, and maybe even cut out a little heart in the space in your chest.

Now, he is wrapping you up in your strings, darling, twisting them into a noose to hang around your pale little neck, so easily broken.

Then he will give your strings a _tug, _and they - _you - _will snap.

He is using your in your little game, and now, without your strings, your fumble and fall into that maze he has grown. He throws you in there, and he waits. He waits.

And he breaks you, darling, without even being there.

Cedric is dead and Voldemort returns, and who are you? You are the lost little puppet hanging from a grave you don't wish to mark.

Now, guess what, child?

He will patch you up and kiss you better, free you from the maze and imprison the rest of the world. You had to choose, and you chose him; maybe once, it was for more innocent purposes (to save the rest) but _now... _You don't mind being a puppet if he's your puppeteer.

And you will rule at his side, for the sake of a tattoo and a drop of blood.

Child, it's time to grow up.


	3. Forever

**Title: **Forever

**Characters: **Harry Potter and Charlie Weasley.

**Prompt: **#2 - Damage.

**Notes: **I've never written this pairing - any of these pairings, in fact - and poor Harry's getting thrown about a bit here. This is a _Muggle AU - _everybody say _oooohhh. B_ut I sincerely hope that you're all still enjoying this!

* * *

You look out of the window.

You put in your earphones and hum along. The person next to you gives you a dirty look, but otherwise stays silent. You munch on a licorice allsort.

The world has crashed around you; you have been torn from the people you count as family, ripped away from your girlfriend, stolen from your friends, all for the sake of a love affair and a promise of _forever. _You are damaged goods, now.

"Sir," someone asks softly beside you. You take out an earphone, and look up at the woman. She's pretty; tired, obviously, but pretty. She doesn't belong on this budget airline, serving tea and coffee to snoring passengers and rowdy children. She holds a tray daintily.

You think of asking for tea, but tea reminds you of -

"No, thank you." You smile at her, but it fades as soon as she gives a relieved sigh and turns her back. You are damaged.

You wear contacts - coloured blue for effect, as not to be recognised - but they don't hide the purple-tinted shadows underneath. Your hands shake as you change the song. The aeroplane rumbles beneath you, and the seatbelt sign flashes. It begins to move.

On the outside, you are a perfectly normal man who's probably off visiting a beautiful girlfriend or rich relative or just travelling the world.

On the inside, you're a famous, damaged coward running away from the truth and forever.

You and Charlie; you are equals. You understand the damage one can do alone, but that need to be _away. _When Charlie arrived at the Burrow that summer, you had been _enthralled _and engaged to his baby sister.

It didn't stop you - maybe it should have.

You got caught, and Charlie was one more stolen kiss away from being disowned. You weren't welcome at the Burrow anymore. But Charlie was due to leave for Romania, where he worked with mysterious and rare animals, just one week after your revelation.

He told you that he was scared; he said he couldn't do it alone. But you couldn't leave with him; you couldn't go to Romania, run away from all the people who still needed you.

So Charlie left without you, and your forever didn't last so long after all.

You stayed, and you tried to fix the damage you had both done. Molly looks at you now, and Ron can stand to stay in a room with you, after Hermione's gentle coaching. You don't know where Ginny is. You doubt you will for a while.

But it's progress.

You stand, stretch, and leave your seat. You stumble down the narrow aisle until you reach the toilets - you tear open one of the doors, lock it behind you, and slump against the wall. You begin to breathe loudly, and take out you mobile from your pocket.

_"Expecto Patronum!" _You hiss, and your wallpaper, a little stag, pops up on the screen. It's been your pass code for years, just a mess of jumbled Latin that means _protect me _or something like that_._

You whisper a message into the receiver after hastily punching in a number, and the screen flickers with silvery smoke, then disappears. You fiddle with the packet of cigarettes in your back pocket. The smoke alarm beeps above you and you silence it with a glare.

_I'm not coming back._

They'll get your message; they'll understand what it means. The stag returns, without a little beep or flash or anything, really, and you know that all is well. The damage has been fixed.

You return to your seat with a sigh, and watch as England begins to fade from sight; Romania is only a few hours away. You haven't given up yet.

You deserve your forever.


End file.
